


Through Different Eyes

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Aidan-verse 4: After the Shouting [3]
Category: Forever Knight, Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: crossovers100, Crossover, Gen, Immortality, Teachers and students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: There's probably never a good time to fall into the Game.
Relationships: Javier Vachon/Tracy Vetter, Nicholas Knight & Lucien LaCroix, Nicholas Knight & Tracy Vetter
Series: Aidan-verse 4: After the Shouting [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/16579
Comments: 118
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place approximately six months after [Sirocco](https://archiveofourown.org/works/346659), in October of '98.  
> 

Shots split the night, white flashes cracking across city darkness, sharp noises breaking through the sound of city traffic. Nick hissed in rage at the feel of a bullet burning across his shoulder and glared through the darkness to find the three suspects.

"I said, freeze! Police!" Nick yelled down the alley. His partner's footsteps had stopped short behind him, to take cover if he was lucky or because Tracy had found a good vantage point, which was more likely.

Vampiric hearing picked up the muttered curses from one of the men ahead, not half as imaginative as the comments Nick had heard in Shakespeare's England. Behind him, Tracy stepped out from a sheltering dumpster, took aim, and fired. Nick popped up over the trashcan he was hiding behind and fired off a couple of shots to give her time to get back under cover. One of the men they were chasing cried out and slid to the ground, panting harshly against the shock of the wound. As he did, the harsh bark of a heavy caliber gun cut the air, two shots and then a third. Tracy screamed and the sound of her body hitting the ground, her head bouncing off the brick wall of the building, echoed in Nick's ears.

In the heartbeat that it took him to identify the noises, the vampire lost control of his temper. Human speed and strength were abandoned, tossed aside against the sound of his partner's heart's blood pouring onto the ground, the whimpering sounds of pain she tried to restrain. Nicholas Knight, Toronto Homicide, reverted to Nicholas de Brabant, Belgian knight and protector of women.

"Got the--" The robber's words were cut off by one hundred sixty-five pounds of enraged vampire slamming into him. Air whooshed out of his lungs when he slammed into the ground and Nick hoped he carried terror down into darkness with him after his head slapped against the pavement.

The last robber abandoned his companions and ran.

Crouched over his current prey, the vampire snarled, ready to rip out his throat. Nick's sensitive nose could track the last man easily; he could smell the tang of cordite from the shots even yards away. Before he could launch himself after his new prey, the sweet, sharp scent of blood overwhelmed the scent of the shots. Behind him, Tracy whimpered again. The sound rasped across his heart.

"Trace?" He flew so quickly that she'd have only seen a blur even if she hadn't been injured. He settled onto his knees next to her, trying to ignore the blood soaking his black slacks. One glance confirmed his worst fears. The wounds were almost certainly fatal. The bastard had used rounds that expanded on impact, ripping their way out with an exit hole three times the size of the entry wound.

One bullet had broken a rib and torn its way out through her lung; Nick knew that sucking, bubbling sound from long-ago wars and more recent time in hospital emergency wards. Already her lung was filling with blood and she was fighting desperately for air. The other wound, however, was worse. Her right shoulder was a mass of blood and bone and gleaming muscle, the collarbone and shoulder socket both shattered.

Nick assessed the injuries in one swift, experienced glance and closed his eyes for a moment. "God, Tracy...."

Shock had already claimed her, and she shivered in the cool air. Blond hair gleamed in the streetlights as Tracy turned her face toward her partner, a minute motion that cost too much of her strength. "Nick, how bad...?" She forced the words out around chattering teeth, unable to move enough to see.

From everything Nick's immortal friends had told him, if Tracy died now, all her wounds should heal completely as she revived. What other alternative was there? An ambulance, if called immediately, might get Tracy to the hospital quickly enough to keep her alive, but at the cost of her right arm, possibly part of her lung, and certainly her current job. Equally disastrous was the chance that she might die en route to surgery or on the table. At that point, his partner would be officially dead in Toronto, forced to move and assume a new identity and job while coping with being suddenly thrown into the Game.

Nick drew a deep breath, settling into the calm he had learned years ago when training for his knighthood and gave his partner the truth with the same level bluntness he'd have used reporting to a battlefield comrade. "Your shoulder's destroyed, Trace. They might be able to patch it back together, but I doubt you'd get anything close to full use. The lung's in bad shape, too. You may lose part of it."

She hissed as the pain began to filter through the shock. "What do we do?"

Nicholas Knight looked at his partner's strained face and said softly, "I kill you. You'll never survive the first decade of the Game with your dominant shoulder shattered. If you die for the first time now, this heals."

Her initial shocked silence changed texture subtly as Tracy visibly forced herself to think through the pain. Adrenaline and the endorphins from the chase would allow her to ignore it for just a little longer, long enough to consider her wounds, her fears, her future. After only a few seconds she forced words out. It was work; already, her lungs weren't working as they should.

Tracy had been warned that she was pre-immortal, that one day she would be in the Game where only one immortal would ultimately win everything. Both partners had known that her job might well kill her -- or that she would walk voluntarily into her first death before she passed her physical peak. Neither had thought that day would come so soon.

"Yes." Nick could hear her lung filling, see the bright, oxygen-rich blood from her heart dotting her lips. "We have to." She strained for air again and said, "Do it, Nick."

The most obvious solution crossed his mind with insidious ease and Nick wanted to discard it immediately. In his long life the Crusader-turned-vampire had killed too many innocent ( _and not so innocent_ , part of his mind whispered) people. He tried very hard to stay away from human blood now. But she would remember forever how her old life ended and how her new one began. Nick knew that from personal experience.

He had no knife with which to stop her heart; it was in the Caddy with her sword. Neither of them had drugs that would kill her painlessly, and poisons would still have to burn out of her again as she revived. A broken neck would kill her but it might not be immediate; if it wasn't, she would choke to death, unable to breathe -- as she would in another minute if he didn't act. Strangling her would also take a few seconds. Either would cause extra damage to an already shattered body and frighten her unnecessarily. A bullet in the brain would kill her in four seconds, maximum, but the wound would take ages to heal.

For minimum additional damage to heal and as little terror as possible, his available choices were the blades, which would leave her alone while he retrieved them (and would also leave her knowing her own blade had been her first death) or his fangs.

Tracy shuddered under his hand as the pain swept through her; the movements jarred her shoulder and she bit her lip white, eyes closed, face tight and blank, rather than scream. Rather than have that spiral perpetuate itself, Nick whispered, "I'm sorry, Trace," and drank.

Skin and muscle offered only a faint resistance as fangs slid into the jugular. He could taste her fear in her blood as he heard it in her heartbeat, smelled it in her sweat. She was warm under his lips, sweeter than her public persona, strong as old wine or dark coffee....

Nick pulled back just enough to let hot blood well up out of the opened wounds, reaching for her mind to match the pain of his bite with slow-brimming pleasure, slow and rich as her blood, a controlled tide of sensation to match the pain she was experiencing without overwhelming it. He wanted to give her relief, not roll her with pleasure that would leave her desperate for more.

He could hear her heart trying to beat despite the dropping blood pressure, one lung laboring for breath while the other filled with blood. Her skin was cooling under his lips and fingers, and she was yawning again and again as her blood oxygen plummeted. Nick could almost hear her last thoughts in her blood: images of Vachon in laughter and passion, flashes of spars and arguments with LaCroix, a final brief worry about Nick and Internal Affairs, the feel of her mother's hand on her hair -- then her world and thoughts fell away into darkness.

The last slow beat of her heart faded away, and Nick wiped his mouth clean with one hand, careful not to cut himself on his fangs. Her blood was unexpectedly fine and much more tempting than he'd expected even after three years without touching human blood. LaCroix had called immortal blood brandy, but Nick only now realized he had meant it was intoxicating.

He found himself wondering how much Tracy's blood would change with her first death, how to get a taste and snarled, at the situation, at his own weaknesses, at the thought that felt like a betrayal of a good, strong partner. He fought his instincts and desires, the urge to hunt and kill the last of the thieves, to wait and drink again when Tracy began to revive.

The night tasted the same when he managed to force his fangs to retract, but his mouth tasted of blood and ashes. It would be a long time before he began to forgive himself these impulses.

Carefully, reverently, Nick picked Tracy's body up and settled her in the trunk of his '67 Cadillac, arranging his emergency blankets around her every bit as protectively before easing the lid closed.

Then he went to deal to deal with the idiots who had set the whole thing off.

* * *

Dr. Natalie Lambert, Toronto Police Medical Examiner for the night shift and Nick's movie-watching buddy, glanced around the crime scene in concern. A man badly in need of a shave, a shower, and a thorough physical exam sat in the back of one squad car. Nick stood by a body on the ground, talking intently to someone from Internal Affairs, the watchdogs of every police force. Two other officers were carefully combing the area. All in all, it looked like a normal night -- well, as normal as any night could be when a cop had to kill a suspect in self-defense. But where was Tracy?

Nick had apparently finished talking to the Internal Affairs agent and she walked off, nodding slowly, and writing busily in her notepad. Natalie stared after Helen, a dark-haired woman who was usually sharp-tempered enough that office jokes said she should have to license her tongue, not her gun.

"Nick? Did you put a whammy on Helen?" Natalie kept her voice low as she began to study the body, but she was annoyed. If Nick was using his vampire ability to influence IA, she was going to be downright pissed.

Nick said intently, "Hear me out, Nat. Remember that talk we had last year about the swordsmen?"

"Yeah," Nat nodded, but she cocked her head, suspicious of the change of subject. "I remember. Immortal humans who fight duels and only die if you cut off their heads. Slightly crazier than vampires, but hey. You said Tracy was going to be one. Where is Tracy, by the way? Shouldn't she be answering IA's questions next?"

"Tracy's body is in the back of my car, slowly healing." The answer came in a low, grim voice that raised the fine hairs on Natalie's arms. "We chased these three. They opened fire; we took cover and shot back. I shot this one, and he was bleeding but alive. One of the others shot Tracy when she tried to cover me; he was shooting dumdums. I'm going to hide her until she comes back, and then we'll deal with it."

"Wait a minute! Nick--" At Nick's glare and shushing motions, Nat lowered her voice and hissed, "Are you telling me that your partner and my friend is lying dead in your trunk and you want me to help you cover it up?"

"Come on, Nat, you've been covering up a vampire on the force for years. Consider this some variety to spice up your life," Nick answered with a forced smile that vanished again as quickly as it had appeared. "If she's found dead, Nat, she loses her entire life here: her name, her family, her home, her job. Everything. Tracy's going to have enough shocks to cope with. Help me spare her these."

"Damn it, Knight, the things you talk me into," Nat muttered, one hand rumpling her hair absentmindedly, nearly pulling it out of its neat twist. "You're right. If she's really going to come back…"

Nick shook his head slightly, answer enough for her doubtful look, but he also said, quietly, "I met the woman who told us this in the 1400s, Nat, and she still had a heartbeat until she killed herself in front of us. Her heart started beating again a few minutes later when she revived. Even LaCroix was convinced."

"And he's more skeptical than I am," Natalie muttered. She shrugged. "In for a penny, in for a pound. All right. So what's the official story on where Tracy is? You know Captain Reese is going to ask, and not just because Commissioner Vetter is sure to call."

Nick exhaled in relief; maybe that she was backing him up. Maybe something else. He looked pretty shell-shocked. "The story is that Tracy tried CPR on the suspect when he died, but it didn't work. You thought she was going into shock and sent her home. We can take her statement tomorrow. I'm the one who shot him, so Internal Affairs is going to investigate me, not her."

"Right, I sent her home. I assume they 'remember' her arguing about it?" Nat asked ironically. Tracy's stubborn devotion to duty was an accepted fact in the precinct.

"As a matter of fact," Nick answered, "they remember being surprised she didn't argue more. Tracy needs a few weeks of extensive training now that she's immortal. I'm trying to set the groundwork for medical leave so that she can get it."

Nat raised an eyebrow. "Planned this in advance, huh? It's a good idea. Yeah, we can do that. I'll back it up in my reports. Nick--"

He glanced at her, blue eyes sharpening as he caught the undertones in her voice. "No, Nat, I didn't kill him. He just bled to death while I was busy with Tracy."

"Where's the third one?" Nat nodded to him once, an apology for the question in her eyes.

"He got away," Nick said grimly. "Officially that's why Tracy dealt with the newly deceased; I was chasing the last thief, her shooter. I was too busy here with her; he got away. I'll get him, don't worry."

"And bring him in, right, Nick?" She shot him a fierce look, one fist on her hip.

"If I'm on duty when I find him," Nick said calmly.

"You're an officer of the court, Knight, you're never really off-duty. I mean it, Nick. Bring him in."

Nick pulled up a smile for her. "Don't worry, Nat. I will. Just be ready to back me up with Reese that Tracy really needs some time to recover from this."

"Oh, I'll make all the right noises, don't worry. Tremendous stress, long hours, pressures of being the Commissioner's daughter and feeling the need to excel, personal trauma of a suspect dying in her arms-- I'll have him begging me to send her off for an extended leave so we don't lose her entirely," Nat said cynically.

In a completely different tone, Nat went on, "Nick, is she going to be all right? This isn't... I mean, I'd at least heard of vampires before. But this?"

"Gilgamesh? The Wandering Jew? Rip van Winkle? History and myth are full of people who don't stay dead," Nick pointed out. "And they're very real. Look, can we talk later? The sooner I get Trace to Vachon and Holy Ground, the better."

"Watch out for the crucifixes," Nat muttered to him. "I don't know how to treat cross-burn, damn it."

Nick leaned in and kissed her quickly on the cheek; a camera flash from the crime scene techs behind him made her blink as he did. "Thanks, Nat. Have we ever counted up how many I owe you?"

"I don't think you can count that high, Knight." But she smiled as she said it and waved him off.

Nick Knight turned and escaped the scene before anyone could ask him anything else.

* * *

Nick maneuvered through the front door of the old church Vachon called home, a task made more difficult by the need for both speed and discretion and by Tracy's limp body in his arms. He kicked the door shut behind them. The flickering golden light at the top of the stairs came from candles; Nick could smell the faintly sweet beeswax. He could also hear someone quietly playing a guitar.

Any other time Nick would have enjoyed listening to Rodrigo’s intricate music. Tonight, the piece came to an abrupt halt and Vachon arrived in a rush of displaced air.

Nick stood his ground, normally an effortless thing but tonight's guilt made it difficult. "Vachon? Clear off the couch, there's a problem." There was no good way to phrase this, Nick knew, and by now Vachon must have realized the blood on Tracy wasn't fresh.

"Knight?" Vachon's glanced from his bundle up to him, dark eyes wide and wary; then his chin came up, a grim look of determination settling onto his face. " _Madre de Dios._ Bring her in."

He cleared a couch for Tracy by picking up the guitar and sweeping everything else -- books, leather jacket, motorcycle keys, and the most recent edition of the _Toronto Star_ \-- onto the floor. Nick lowered her body onto the couch and retrieved Vachon's jacket from the floor. After folding it, Nick put the jacket under her head as a pillow.

"Does the water here actually work, or are the pipes just decorative?"

"I like hot showers," Vachon said, one hand hovering over her hair; the ends were tacky with dried blood. "Get to the important parts: What happened?"

"We're going to have time," Nick told him. "A couple of things have to be done first. Can you start cleaning her up? Tracy's not going to want to come back completely covered in blood."

Vachon apparently still had enough sense not to push a more powerful vampire; he nodded and went to work, looking almost grateful for something useful to do. While he was digging around for clean clothes for Tracy, Nick went on, "Does the phone work?"

"No, Knight, I use it for a paperweight. Of course, it works." Vachon dropped one of his shirts beside the couch. It was long enough to be marginally decent; that would do for now.

Nick controlled a snarl, aware that he was furious and frustrated. All he said out loud was, "Good. We can argue about who pays the long-distance costs later."

"Long.... Oh, the list of names. Aidan first?"

"No, we'll call Aidan later. She's got a student now, remember? She only trains one at a time. No, I'm calling Connor." Nick pulled a laminated card out of his wallet and checked the number quickly before dialing.

The phone rang once, twice, a third time before a harsh voice answered. "Nash."

"C-- Russell, it's Nicholas Knight in Toronto."

There was a pause from the other end of the line, then Connor said, "This time of night I can only think of one reason you're calling. How'd it happen?"

"Convenience store robbery. She was shot on duty. Everything here is covered; what do you need us to do?"

Connor chuckled on the other end of the line, an odd staccato sound. "So far, you're doing fine, Knight. Can you get her to Holy Ground?"

Vachon, who could easily hear both sides of the conversation, called out, "She's on Holy Ground."

Nick turned and stared at him. "This church is still consecrated?"

"They never got around to deconsecrating it." Vachon shrugged and went back to carefully cutting Tracy's blood-soaked blouse off her. "No big deal, Knight. You've been coming and going for months, remember?"

MacLeod's only comment to the back-and-forth conversation was, "Good. Keep her there. Where's her sword?"

"I'll get it for her," Nick promised, and cursed himself for forgetting something so obvious. "Anything else?"

"No. I'll be there as soon as I can. There've been some complications, by the way. It's not safe for me to train her right now. Call Gina and Robert and tell them you're taking them up on that trip to France for Tracy, and that I'll see that she gets there safely. Just keep her covered and wait for her to wake up. She's still got all parts attached, I hope?"

Nick shook his head, some of the night's tension seeping out of his shoulders with the motion. "Are you sure you're not with the police, Russell? You even sound like us. No, nothing got blown completely away. Her shoulder is… bad."

"It'll heal, Knight. Remember, it's a kind of magic." His cheerful tone reassured Nick even more; he hadn't realized he was pacing the length of the phone cord until he stopped. "I'll call for directions to the Holy Ground from the airport, and I'll call Aidan as soon as I take care of the plane tickets. You talk to Gina and Robert. Cool down, Knight. I'll be there soon and you've done better than most."

Nick stared down at the phone now giving off a dial tone and then shook his head, still smiling. "You'd think he was the older one."

Vachon said absently, "He's older than I am." He took the bowl of water to the sink and dumped the sanguinary mess down the drain, then rinsed and refilled it. Vachon returned to the couch and kept working the blouse off her, soaking it off rather than tear her flesh further. Eventually the sponge ran clean instead of dripping gore.

Vachon was operating with a fixed expression and precision of movement that told Nick he was looking at her as an almost abstract composition of livid red and pale white with a few yellow-white bone splinters poking through. He picked carefully at the entry wound in her chest, removing dirt, bits of fabric, and the occasional small piece of bone. He murmured, "I wish the Inca were still alive. He was the healer, not me."

Nick shook his head and held out a fresh bowl of water. "Maybe, but you had more battlefield experience. It helps."

"He had better hands."

"You're here and getting the job done." Nick looked down at his partner and sighed in relief. "Oh, thank… I was afraid they'd had been wrong."

Vachon spun on him, hands fisting in shirt and jacket. "What do you mean? Wrong about what, Knight?"

Nick freed himself from the other man's grasp more gently than he would have any other night. "The wound's healing, Vachon. It's already smaller." He hesitated then said, "Her neck's healed already, too."

"You drank her?" Vachon snarled it at him, his fangs extending and eyes gone amber.

"It was the best I could do!" Nick snapped back. "She died without pain, Vachon. Would you have rather I let her linger in agony? Have you looked at her shoulder? Do you hear how much blood is still in her lung? She's your lover, but she's my partner! We're just going to have to share, understand? It's that or make her choose. She'll choose you, Vachon, but I'm not going to be the one to put her through that."

Vachon had to close his eyes, fists and jaw tight, before he made himself say, "I'm sorry."

Nick sagged into a chair. The smell of Tracy’s blood was driving him half-mad; Vachon had been wrist-deep in it. "No, I owe the apology. There had to be a better way to tell you -- but you deserved to know that I gave her the _coup de grace_."

That drew a reluctant nod. "Thanks. And thank you for doing it. Don't you need to call Gina?"

Nick accepted the change of topic and turned aside, a statement of trust he wasn't entirely sure was justified, but then he wasn't sure he didn't deserve it if Vachon chose to hit him. "I'd better call her, yes. Better me than you, anyway. I'm not sure Robert likes you."

"Oh, he likes me, he just doesn't trust-- Jesus," Vachon murmured. "How is her arm still attached?! This is healing?"

Nick turned at the patent disbelief in Javier's voice and came over to study his partner's wound properly, rather than the earlier battlefield-quick evaluation. His mouth drew down into a thin line, but he said grimly, "Yes. That's an improvement. Now do you see why I drained her?"

Vachon nodded. "What I don't see is how she lived long enough for you to do it. I told her she's too stubborn for her own good!" His hands were very gentle as he began to clean this, too.

Shadows moved and assumed new patterns, the only warning of LaCroix's arrival. He brought a candelabra with him to shed better light on Tracy's wounds, and sounded almost clinically detached as he said, "Rather impressive what one can do with modern weapons. I remember when it took a mortar shell or ballista bolt to destroy a shoulder like that." Turning to Nick, LaCroix went on in French, "Nicholas, I assume all necessary calls are being made?"

"LaCroix. What are you doing here?" Nick didn't remember standing to face his maker, but he hadn't heard the older vampire come in either. LaCroix put a hand on his shoulder. Reassurance and support passed through that steady grip, and then he turned Nick back toward the phone. Nick drew a deep, unnecessary breath and checked the card for his next phone number.

"I felt your distress, _mon fils_ , and came to see what could have you in such a rage. So it's come at last." LaCroix studied the motionless form on the couch, a familiar, dispassionate evaluation. "It's a good time for it, I suppose. Theresa's strength and speed have hit a plateau for the moment. And fall is usually a lighter season for your work, is it not?"

Nick's temper flared up and needed a moment to be forced back down. "Yes. Fall is. And Natalie is dealing with the groundwork to get her medical leave for awhile."

"Good. I had hoped Dr. Lambert would be... helpful." LaCroix dismissed that consideration, clearly relegating -- and delegating -- such details to Nick.

_For that matter,_ Nick mused, _if I can't do it any other way, I can always 'convince' Captain Reese to go along with the plan. Or ask LaCroix to talk to him if I can't manage it._

Beside him, LaCroix had picked Tracy up off the couch; he moved toward the old rectory kitchen without having to ask directions. "Find more light, Vachon. If the wound is clear, she will heal more swiftly."

Vachon's eyes flashed gold for a moment. "LaCroix, you'll rip her shoulder up more."

LaCroix stilled, holding Tracy's weight easily as he studied Vachon. In the controlled, overly-patient voice of an irritated schoolteacher dealing with a smart child who hasn't bothered to study the day's lesson, he said, "Theresa is dead. She will feel no pain from this. If you wish her well more swiftly and with less pain when she revives, bring me light."

Nick glanced sidelong in time to see frustration, fear, and rage swept across Vachon's face until he stilled it, with considerable effort; his hands clenched into fists as he did. After a moment, he busied himself bringing candles and holders until there was a steady, even light around his lover. He said nothing as he did.

LaCroix worked his way across the wounds methodically, using a small dagger to remove bits of bone. Once or twice he simply extended a gash to more easily remove the intruding material or pull away cloth that had been forced into the wound. When water ran clean over Tracy's shoulder and nothing showed except flesh, LaCroix carried her back to the couch, set her collarbone and then worked her shoulder back into place. Careful maneuvering settled her so that the broken rib was lined up evenly as well, the edges more or less back where they should be.

Nick, meanwhile, called Gina de Valicourt in France. From the birdsong in the background and the soft clink/chink of china against china/silver, he'd caught her drinking her morning coffee, possibly in a garden or on a balcony.

"Nicholas, it's good to hear your voice. How are you?" Despite the hour, her voice suggested that hearing from him was among her fondest wishes.

"I'm fine, Gina, and you?"

"We're both well, Nicholas, not even any challenges lately. The last of the year's flowers are beautiful, especially at dawn, although surely it is the middle of the night there?"

"Yes, it is. There's... a slight problem, Gina." Nick paused, searching for the right words, and hoping the offer to teach his partner was still open.

He sighed in relief as Gina anticipated him, her voice gone practical. "It's always a pleasure to hear from you, Nicholas, but I suspected there must be. Is Theresa well enough yet? "

"She will be. I've already talked to Connor, who says that he'll get her to France, but he can't take a student right now. I think someone may be hunting him."

Gina sipped at her coffee. "There are always fools in the world. Certainly we will teach her, Nicholas. We would be glad to. Is she there?"

"In body," Nick answered dryly. "Not yet in spirit."

"Ah. When she wakes, have her call us. Meanwhile, I will see that a room is readied for her. Was it public, then?"

"No, fortunately it wasn't. Thank you, Gina. I'll handle getting leave for her to come over. She's already good with a sword; will six weeks let you teach her the rest of it?"

Gina raised an eyebrow at that, but said softly, "Let me think, Nicholas. I take it she is trying to keep her job? Wise. She'll be less conspicuous that way." Nick couldn't see her, but he could hear a quick, staccato tapping of her finger. Her thoughts were almost certainly moving much faster.

A minute later -- an eternity as Nick waited -- Gina said resolutely, "Six weeks it will have to be. I have not been to Canada in ages, perhaps Robert and I will come there for another month or three after she returns. Surely there are things to do in Toronto, even in winter? And there are phone and fax connections; we can work from there." Her Italian accent intensified as she lost herself in planning. "The Forest rooms will be best for a new student, deep and restful, and she'll need the help with her dreams. Best we begin with finances and identities, I think...."

Nick blinked, ignoring the parts of her plans he couldn't assist with and working on the parts he could. "That would be incredibly generous of you both, Gina. When you come over, I'll take care of your housing."

" _Non_ , Nicholas, that is not necessary. We know Theresa has not had the time to accumulate money yet, and we are well-enough off."

Nicholas said firmly, "Yes it is necessary, Gina. She's my partner. You two have already offered to cover her plane ticket to France and back, and you'll be taking care of her when she's there. I'll take care of housing while you're here."

Gina's laugh was a delighted, husky chuckle; combined with her original greeting, it almost made Nick regret her long-standing marriage to Robert. "Oh, very well. She is most lucky to have you as a partner, Nicholas. But time is flying. When do you think she can leave?"

"I would think... the day after tomorrow," Nick said finally. "She won't need a visa, and she has a passport. We can get the medical paperwork handled by then."

"And Connor will bring her? How wonderful, we never see him when he isn't busy. Tell him that we will send his ticket as well. We can argue money later," came the cheerful reply. "And we will both meet them at the airport, just in case Connor's trouble follows him. Tell him to plan on spending a couple of days at least."

"I'll tell him, Gina. Do you want them to pick up the tickets at the gate?" Nick wrote details in his pad as the two of them coordinated logistics and then spent ten minutes gossiping with both the Valicourts, when Robert joined his wife.

"Hey, Knight, pass the phone." Vachon stole it from him and started talking to Gina in rapid-fire Italian.

LaCroix regarded his wayward son out of fathomless eyes, then walked him to the front door with an arm around his shoulder more insistent than supportive. "Would I be correct, Nicholas, in thinking that Theresa's throat should have had marks?"

LaCroix had asked it in German, which cost Nick a moment to translate. The taste of her blood flooded his mouth at the question, and Nick fought for a long moment to restrain his eyes, his fangs, his hands.... When he had control again, tenuous though it was, he let his gaze flick back up to his maker. Naked defiance filled his expression as it so often seemed to around LaCroix. "Yes."

LaCroix only smiled, darkly self-satisfied as he so often was around Nick. "I see." He left as silently as he'd arrived.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Connor stepped out of the taxi and slung his duffel over one shoulder. The thumb of his sword arm was hooked on his belt, within convenient reach of his katana. A quick calculating gaze took in the quality of the neighborhood and weighed it against his instincts. All the cars seemed to fit the locale, and the variety of people reminded him of similar portions of New York.

He glanced around again then settled himself against the handrail of some nearby stairs. Most likely the building they ran up to was an apartment. Connor sat there for a good twenty minutes, apparently enjoying the October sunshine and the passersby on the street. More than one person got a smile and nod from him as he leaned against his duffel, to all intents and purposes without a care in the world. Only after the immortal thought he had a feel for the local rhythms did Connor decide that no, his problem had not followed him from New York. Probably.

Connor stood, stretched, and picked the duffel back up before moving down another couple of blocks, and over one. Again, the immortal settled his duffel and lounged in the crisp early morning sunlight, watching people walking to their destinations and occasionally waving. Wary, cynical eyes contemplated the cars on the street, the cars going by. After half an hour had passed, he decided no one had followed him to this locale either. This time when he stood up, he moved to the address Vachon had given him -- two long blocks down, and three to the left.

Studying the apparent poverty of the nearly-abandoned church and contrasting it to the partially concealed, high-quality locks, Connor smiled from sheer admiration. "Gall. I like that in an immortal, even if he's not one of us."

* * *

Nick had curled into a chair, dozing the morning away as he waited for Connor or Tracy to wake him. Vachon had sprawled out on his bed, not sleeping, but too restless to play guitar, either. Movement brought Knight fully alert, a slight scraping at the door. Then the locked door opened and both vampires moved.

The first thing they saw was a silhouetted human, his body blocking what little sunlight could make it to the basement-level door and one hand curled loosely around a set of lock picks. Both vampires stopped short, staying out of the lone sunbeam coming over his shoulder. A chill breeze wrapped past him, carrying the acrid taint of passing traffic, a faint trace of clove oil and still fainter tang of steel, and the expected, swiftly-recognized scent of Connor MacLeod.

The immortal grinned as the two vampires appeared in front of him. "Hello, yourselves. If you'll back up, I'll shut out the sunlight."

Nick picked up Connor's bag and said, "I'm glad you're here." His hand was tight around the canvas of the duffel, and it took an effort not to tear the stiff material.

Connor turned at that. "Not awake yet, then?"

"No." Vachon leashed his impatience. "Is this normal?"

"For a first death? It's been, what, ten hours?" They nodded almost in unison and Connor shrugged. "I've seen worse. Where is she?"

"In here," Vachon answered. "Come and see."

"By the way," Connor asked as he followed them up the stairs, "should you two be awake?"

The vampires glanced back and forth at each other before shrugging in unplanned unison. "No reason not to be," Nick said, his voice deliberately mild against his worries. If Tracy didn't revive, if the blame lay with him.... "We usually sleep during the day because it's only safe to go out at night."

"Hmm." The Scot knelt next to the couch and laid a surprisingly gentle hand on Tracy's throat, feeling for a pulse at the carotid artery and finding nothing. Next, he placed his palm over her heart, eyes half-closed as he listened for something the two vampires didn't hear. "She'll be back fairly soon," Connor commented. "She's not the strongest of us, though, that's for sure."

Dark brown eyes narrowed and Vachon glared at the swordsman. "What's that mean?"

"It means," Connor said calmly, "that she's got a weak quickening even for a new immortal. Some of us start out stronger than others. Tracy isn't one of those. That doesn't mean she'll necessarily lose, but she won't heal as quickly as most either."

"Is that a problem?" Nick set Connor's bag out of the way and perched on the arm of the sofa as the swordsman examined Tracy's shoulder.

"How fast is she?" was the dry rejoinder.

"Pretty fast," Vachon snapped.

"She can work around it, then. She'll want to concentrate on defense and endurance for a while. How badly was this shoulder damaged?"

"Just about blown off," Nick answered grimly.

Connor nodded. "It's healing quickly enough now. Anything else?"

"If she'd been a vampire, we'd have been nervous," Vachon said wryly. "The other bullet went through her lung, a little close to the heart for my taste."

"Wrong taste in food for that to be a problem and lead, not wood." Once he'd finished his examination of the newest immortal, Connor turned to face the other two. "Like I said, she'll be back in a while. So? Who's got the deck of cards?"

* * *

A light switch flicking on, a door slamming closed against her back, the abrupt, frozen drop into cold water from a high-swinging rope. Tracy fell back into her body with a jolt. Every inch of her body was whining in the pins and needles sensations of tissue that had gone to sleep, even places her pulse had never hammered after a full-blast aerobics session. Stale air, tight muscles -- she gasped for air and filled her lungs with their first oxygen in twelve hours. Her heart pounded an off-rhythm drumbeat as it tried to settle down into something slower and steadier against the panicky demands of the rest of her body.

Pressure wrapped across her skin, terrifying because it was everywhere; adrenaline flooded her bloodstream. Sweat broke out on her palms and her eyes snapped open as Tracy began looking frantically for something that had to be nearby.... As soon as she met Connor's shadowed gaze, the sensation dropped off into something more bearable.

He folded his hand of cards and set them down on the table, then moved to the couch, dropping to one knee beside her. "Thirsty?"

A harsh croak answered that. Tracy swallowed down the dust in the back of her throat and nodded instead.

Vachon appeared by the couch and handed over one of the small bottles of grapefruit juice he kept in his refrigerator for her. At a loss for words for once, he said nothing as he sat down next to her, one arm slung along the couch behind her. Tracy settled back against him as she drank the juice in three long gulps.

Nick chuckled and handed over two more bottles. "I've seen this part before. Here."

Connor favored her with a wry smile that told her volumes about just how worried the other two had been. Out loud, he said, "Your timing needs work, by the way."

"Early or late?" Tracy emptied the second bottle, more thirsty than she could remember being in ages, and reached for the third.

"Early. Another half-hour and I'd have finished cleaning their pockets." He chuckled. "They've been distracted. Anything still hurt?"

Slender fingers probed wonderingly at her shoulder and then at the spot on her chest where the second bullet had gone in just below one breast. "No. God, this is strange." Her eyes widened as she realized she was wearing one of Vachon's dress shirts and nothing more. "Where are my clothes?"

Nick took that question, watching her worriedly. "They're ashes in the incinerator, Trace. Between the holes and the blood, and cutting them off you to work on wounds...."

Connor raised one expressive eyebrow. "Is that the only thing you're going to wonder about?"

"How many speed laws did you break?" Tracy asked him readily. "And where are we going to go get food? What time is it? Am I late for work yet?"

The older immortal laughed, an unguarded reaction that made him look much younger than usual. "You'll do. None. Your neighborhood, you tell me. Early afternoon, I make it about one o'clock. How would I know?"

Tracy laughed in response and felt Vachon's arm tighten around her shoulders. Nick sighed and said, "Partner, you're going to take a century off my life scaring me like that. I was starting to think I had...." His voice trailed off, unable to push the words out.

"Nick, you knew I was going to come back." Tracy reached out and got one hand on his shoulder where he was perched on the couch arm.

"No, I knew Aidan said you would." Nick forced a smile. "Waiting twelve hours for you to revive was not exactly what I expected."

"Yeah, she did come back in... what, a minute? Two?" She gripped his shoulder harder, trying to reassure him.

Connor tapped his fingers on his knee, trying to follow this, and asked, "How did Aidan die?"

"She put a knife through her own heart," Vachon answered. "Freaked us out."

"I guess she picked the habit up from-- Well, not from Ramirez," Connor muttered. "The Spanish peacock hated getting stabbed. Did someone pull the knife immediately?"

Tracy gave him an interested look, and put down the third bottle of juice, finally starting to slow down on her liquid intake. "LaCroix did. How much difference does that make?"

"Hers was a single, clean wound, which killed immediately," Connor pointed out patiently. "You took at least two major wounds, probably a concussion on top of it, and died of... what, Knight? Shock? Oxygen deprivation? Blood loss?" Connor looked to Nick for an answer.

Tracy exchanged glances with partner: guilt and worry from Nick, comprehension and reassurance back from her. Tracy answered Connor firmly, "Probably blood loss. The lung was getting pretty full last I remember."

Connor nodded but his eyes were watchful, cynical, almost amused. She was fairly sure he hadn't bought her story even before he said thoughtfully, "Being that Roman's granddaughter ought to make your life interesting. Or will he see it that way, Knight?"

Vachon almost choked on air he didn't need to breathe, and Tracy's head whipped around quickly enough to reassure Nick that yes, her collarbones were fine.

"What?!" Tracy asked, staring at Connor. "LaCroix's granddaughter?"

Connor's one-shoulder shrug conveyed dispassionate interest. "Knight drained you down to death and he's of the Roman's making. You three know better than I do how possessive LaCroix is. So? You're not a vampire, but will he think this counts?"

"Two-- Nick, is he serious? Would LaCroix really...?" Tracy stared at her partner, wide-eyed and looking more like a sister than his 'daughter.'

Nick thought about it, running his hands repeatedly through short hair a little more gold than hers. His face grew visibly more disturbed, hair rumpled almost straight up before he finished turning the idea over and examining it from all angles. The apologetic look he finally gave her answered the question.

Connor chuckled. "I thought so too. Two clans at once -- do you think you'll survive it?"

"Oh, God," Tracy moaned, "can't you just see--" She looked horrified as she ran out of words. To Nick's surprise and Vachon's pleasure, that look was quickly replaced by a hundred-yard stare, then an almost diabolic glee. In a dreamy, purring voice, she said, "Oh, I can't wait until the next time my father tries to tell me I have to transfer off the night shift if I want to get ahead. Do you think I could just hand the phone to LaCroix?"

Nick doubled over, roaring with laughter. "Oh, God, your father!"

Vachon grinned too, but then he'd heard more than one of Tracy's conversations -- answers, on her part -- with her domineering father. The Police Commissioner ate, drank, and breathed for politics and had more than once tried to 'arrange' his daughter's career for her. If Tracy had been any less stubborn, she'd probably be an Assistant District Attorney by now, or at least a high-profile detective with the Financial Crimes Unit. LaCroix would love playing _paterfamilias_. Although, he might have his own opinions on it, come to think of it.

Vachon grinned at her. "I'd pay good money to hear that, Trace."

Connor waited until the three of them had laughed some of the tension out to say, "Lesson one, Tracy." When he had her attention again, the Scot said, "To finish the earlier answer, the more badly you're hurt or the weaker you are, the longer it takes to heal. You were badly injured; it was your first death -- of course you took a while. And you've a weak quickening, even for a new immortal."

Her eyes met his, level and appraising. "How bad is that?"

"I won't tell you to go headhunting," he answered bluntly. "It wouldn't suit your soul and you don't heal fast enough for it be safe physically either. But yes, it could be a problem. For the first century or so, fight cautiously. You'll know when you're getting stronger or ask one of us."

Tracy nodded, accepting the answer until she had time to think about it -- and argue about it -- later. "Then how did Aidan heal in two minutes?"

"She's several times your age," Connor answered, "she's strong, and it was a single, clean wound. And Aidan knows how to let go of life, so there was no major emotional trauma to heal, either. You had a lot to heal, and the first death is always the worst."

"Actually," she murmured, "emotionally it wasn't too bad."

Connor raised an eyebrow at that, then studied the two vampires. "Hell, maybe we should try this as an experiment next time. Aidan has just about convinced me that I should tell pre-immortals in advance. If I have one who wants to step into the Game, I may call one of you two."

Nick and Vachon glanced at each other, then back at him, and shrugged. "I can't see where that would be interfering in the Game," Nick said. "And we certainly owe you."

"Most of us are traumatized by that first death," Connor said bluntly. "A lot of us died in battle, or freak accidents. Occasionally it's disease, but that's fairly rare. One man fell out of a tree in the Black Forest," Connor grinned at that thought. "Another ran into a milk truck."

Vachon stared at him. "You're kidding."

"No." Connor chuckled. "I even heard of one who died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seems there was a mountain lion who thought that was his berry patch."

Tracy giggled despite herself. "That makes mine look better. I mean, cop killed by convenience store robber? It's a bad cliché, Connor. How did you die the first time?" After a moment, she hastily added, "If that isn't too personal a question."

Connor settled back into his chair. "My clan was arguing with the Frasiers and we went to battle over it. My cousins, Dhugal and Angus, tried to protect me, but the Frasiers wouldn't fight me. The Kurgan had agreed to win the day for them in exchange for getting to kill me. They considered it an excellent bargain," he said dryly.

"The Kurgan? Why was he so special?"

Nick winced. "Kurgan? I knew some of those crazy bastards. One of them was a swordsman?"

Connor smiled, a crooked, ironic expression that wasn't actually amused. "One was, yes, and as I said, a bargain for the Frasiers in a fight. Seven feet tall, three feet across the shoulders, with a sword as tall almost as Tracy. He gave me my death wound in that battle and would have had my head except three of my cousins piled on the man and pushed him away. Too late for me. They brought me home to die."

"It would take three men to drive him back if he was like one of the ones I knew in the Fifth Crusade," Nick said bluntly. "We traveled under a white sun that baked us alive and lost as many to disease and the heat of their own armor as to the Saracens arrows that campaign. But that Kurgan never stopped, never slowed, never seemed human. He drove his horses until they foundered and beat down the enemy line the same way."

The Scot raised an eyebrow. "We may be talking about the same man. You were still mortal?"

"LaCroix found me in Italy after that and made me a vampire," Nick said quietly. "Most of the army had gone ahead to Acre, to lay claim in Frederick's name, but Frederick was holding a dispute with the Pope. LaCroix found me in a fight just outside of Papal territories."

Connor just laughed. "A vampire stole a Crusader from the Church?"

"Something like," Nick admitted, smiling as he remembered Janette's seduction.

"Very like, I'd bet." Vachon snickered. "LaCroix would do it just to prove he could."

"LaCroix," Tracy moaned. "Granddaughter? Wait... two clans, Connor?"

"Gina and Robert don't take many students, but the ones they train are family," the Scot said. "You're definitely going to be stuck with them."

"Oh." Tracy tried to consider it reasonably but kept thinking, _Family that doesn't have any plans for me other than helping me survive? This might be an interesting change._

Connor watched her from too-knowing eyes. "It could be worse. You could definitely have done worse." He raised an eyebrow, sardonic, and pointed out, "You could have ended up with my family."

"Oh, great, that babbling group of lunatics from your party?" Tracy deliberately goaded Connor to see what he'd say, laughter bubbling through her voice as the relief of still being alive finally set in.

"Babbling... oh, Adam," Connor responded. "Yes, he comes with the package. And that over-muscled thug, Damien, and my kinsman, Duncan. Then there are the women. We have a few more than Gina and Robert's lot, but then there's more of us. Edana's fond of teaching. Mandisa you haven't met, but Kyra is in the family--" He cut off the list at her blank look. "You'll meet them all eventually. Gina may have photos of some of them."

Vachon winced, and Tracy wasn't sure it was because he'd met them and was afraid of what advice they might have had for a new cousin, or if it was at the idea of having to cope with that many more stubborn women.

Connor glanced at Vachon, eyes half-lidded with something Tracy thought might be concealed amusement. "It could be worse, Javier. Tracy could be related to Alban, who doesn't take no for an answer and periodically loses his balls for it. He'll lose his head for it one day."

Both vampires flinched as old human instincts drove them to cross their legs. Tracy's eyes widened, then her teeth flashed in a feral smile. "Amanda was serious?"

"That Damien gelded him once?" Connor smiled back, equally vicious. "Yes. He thought death was too good for the bastard. Did Amanda mention that she was the other one who'd gelded him?"

Seasoned homicide detective or not, Tracy's eyes widened. "I thought she was exaggerating!"

"He made some comment about Damien only did it because he was jealous. Alban had no idea Amanda and Damien had been lovers. Amanda..." Connor paused before continuing thoughtfully, "... examined the merchandise, decided it needed to 'mature a bit,' and pruned it back. So to speak."

Nick and Vachon still had their legs crossed; Javier had his arms protectively over his crotch. They were both laughing, too, despite themselves.

Tracy, however, was giggling. It started to get a slightly hysterical edge -- Nick put a hand on her shoulder, grip just firm enough to be comforting if cool -- and she hastily asked, "So, what, Amanda trimmed them?" Her eyes widened. "Oh, God, are you telling me they grew back?!"

"Apparently so," Connor shrugged, but he was studying her now. "I certainly haven't investigated. If so, I guarantee you, it hurt."

Nick hastily redirected the conversation. "What ever happened to the Kurgan, Connor?"

Connor chuckled, the sound more barbed than usual. "He always was mad. He finally lost his head."

"Who managed that?" Nick had to ask, if only to avoid annoying that immortal.

Connor smiled. "The one who wanted to win the worst: Me."

Tracy shook her head. "Too much, Connor. I can't cope with this until I get real food that hasn't started considering turning into lab specimens. How do you like Chinese food?"

"Chinese is fine." Connor considered the vampires and said, "Why don't you two sleep? She's my responsibility now, anyway."

"If you killed the Kurgan," Nick said bluntly, "the local gangs aren't going to make you blink. Do you want a key?"

"Why? You can lock up behind me after I close the door."

Tracy said plaintively, "If someone will tell me where my wallet and keys are, and what I can wear...?"

Vachon grinned at her and said, "I told you that you should leave some clothes over here, Trace." She promptly punched him just under the shoulder. Hard.

Nick sighed and said, "Tracy, didn't you leave your workout bag in my car the other night?"

"Hey, sweatpants beat indecent exposure," she said quickly. "Can you just see the arresting officers leaving word for Captain Reese?"

"I'll get the clothes and after lunch, we'll go by your apartment. We'll meet again after sunset." Connor caught the car keys when Nick tossed them over. "Tracy, get your things together... whatever they've left you."

Tracy glanced at Nick. "Will LaCroix really...?"

"He came by and checked on you early this morning," Nick said quietly. "He's the one who set your shoulder, collarbone, and ribs. I think you're stuck with him."

Tracy rolled her eyes in exasperation at the thought but went to run a washcloth over her newly immortal face and find her gun and wallet.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Connor picked up a chunk of broccoli with his chopsticks and pushed the platter at Tracy with the other hand. "Still hungry?"

"No. Finally." Tracy studied the war zone of empty platters and plates, decimated food and abandoned sauces, and shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe I ate all that!" She rubbed a hand over her stomach anyway.

He chuckled. "Dying and healing are hungry work. You'll get used to it."

"Yeah, I guess so." Her voice lacked conviction and one finger traced patterns in the water rings from the glasses. She used a foot to check that her gym bag was still safely under the table. She'd brought it in with her rather than leave a gun she was responsible for locked in Nick's highly visible car.

"Frightened?"

On a long-drawn sigh, she admitted, "Yeah."

"Good. It'll keep you alert. Be frightened, Tracy. Just be stubborn, too."

She fiddled with the alignment her chopsticks on her plate before asking, "Connor, what am I doing going to France? I don't even speak the language!"

He regarded her in amusement. "And you don't have anything to wear?"

A reluctant smile began to twitch at Tracy's lips. "Well, I probably do, but that's not the problem and you know it."

"You knew this was coming," he answered imperturbably, sitting back in the booth and sipping at his hot tea. "You've been getting ready for a year now. And you speak French."

"I speak Canadian French," she muttered. "And I wasn't ready."

"We never are. There's only one way out of the Game, Tracy. Do you want to lose your head and get it over with?"

Blond hair swung as she raised her head sharply to glare at him. "No."

"Then finish your complaints and get on with your life. This is never easy -- but if you don't pick yourself up and get on with things now, what happens next time? I might not be there. Nick and Javier might not. The day will come when the only thing that lets you win a fight is your ability to force yourself back up and into it before your opponent is ready." Connor paused and groaned. "Damned Spanish peacock. Every time I teach a student, I start sounding like him."

"I'm not a quitter." Tracy leaned over the table to glare at him, blue eyes almost sparking with anger.

"You're a homicide inspector, you couldn't be," Connor agreed with a crooked, annoying smile. "Feeling better?"

"You bastard, you goaded me into that!"

"It worked, too," Connor pointed out, smile spreading into a grin. "Better now?"

She groaned and sat back. Tracy stretched, hard, and yawned again, then agreed reluctantly, "Yeah, much better." More sincerely, she said, "Thanks, Connor."

He was still watching her, grin faded to a smile that curved his mouth rather than lighting his eyes. Tracy wondered what he was seeing, but she could tell he wasn't going to tell her in public, even a back booth of a neighborhood Chinese dive. What he did say was, "You're welcome. Ready to go get a shower?"

She kept studying him for another moment. "Did you sleep on the plane up?"

"Some." Connor gave a dismissive shrug as he dropped money on the table for the bill and tip. "You driving?"

"Nick's Caddy? I'll navigate, but that thing's a boat. He'd kill me if I dented her," Tracy answered immediately. "All right. What now?"

"You shower and start packing. I'll grab a nap if you have a couch." He paused inside the door of the restaurant and frowned.

"Connor?" Tracy found herself settling into a defensive stance just to his left. "What is it?"

"A man's been looking for me," he said calmly. "And that car has driven past three times during lunch."

Tracy nodded, plans spinning through her mind and being discarded. "Right," she answered. "I'm driving. Give me the keys. We give him two minutes to keep going and head to the car. Does he know we're here?"

"I doubt it. He was too far away to feel me, if that was him. It could be coincidence. He could be lost or waiting for someone."

"It could also be hired muscle," Tracy said fiercely. "Ready?"

"Of course." Both of them walked swiftly to Nick's car. Tracy gunned the engine and confidently headed into a tangle of back streets. Within five minutes, no one was following them.

"I thought this was a boat?" Connor asked in amusement as she steered easily around a corner.

"It is. I can drive it; I just don't like to." She pulled into a parking garage and deliberately put the car in a shadowed corner. "There. Come on, my apartment's across the street."

"If he follows you here--"

"I'll be in France," she smiled. "And the force will be swinging by while I'm gone, you know. We do that sort of thing for each other. Imagine the look on the guy's face when Toronto's finest arrest him for loitering, stalking, and anything else they can get him for."

* * *

Tracy unlocked her apartment, stepped in, and slung her jacket onto the hook and her gym bag (gun still safely in it) under the entry table. By the time Connor'd thrown the lock behind them, she was listening to the messages on her answering machine: from Captain Reese, telling her to take the night off if she needed it; from Natalie, saying only to call if she needed anything; and from her father, telling her that perhaps a leave would be a good idea right now, it would let people forget she'd been involved in another fatal pursuit so soon.

Connor raised an eyebrow as that one played and Tracy flushed. "I had to kill someone last year. He was shooting at me and Nick, and well, I just--"

"You defended yourself," the older immortal shrugged. "But he sounded more worried about your reputation than you. Is he?"

"Lately, yeah." Tracy sorted through the mail in her hand rather than look at Connor. "A lot of the time, really. I'm never doing the right thing, according to Dad. But I serve and protect, and that's what I want. So he's just going to have to live with the fact that his idea of how to be one of Toronto's Finest doesn't match mine."

"Talk to Duncan sometime about fathers and expectations," Connor suggested. "He had some practice in dealing with that problem."

"Political aspirations?" Tracy asked.

"Something like," Connor said dryly. "His father was the local chieftain. Put the mail down, Tracy, and come talk to me."

"You need sleep," Tracy said, reluctantly lowering the last of the sorted mail to the entry table.

"I can wait." Connor finally put hands on her shoulders and turned her around, gently enough she could have fought it but firmly enough she knew he was done letting her dodge. "Now. Listen to me." Tracy looked up, finally, and saw sympathy implacable as gravity. "It's done, Tracy, and past done, and there's no changing it or going back from it. Admit it, woman: You were dead."

"I." Tracy found herself kneeling on the floor with no idea how she'd landed there, staring at her hands. Connor pulled a jacket around her shoulders. Tracy stared at him blankly, beginning to shiver with a cold that had nothing to do with the heat in her apartment.

Connor studied her with that same focused attention then went on as if he'd never stopped speaking. "You were dead, Tracy. Lungs full of blood; shoulder, arm, and ribs mangled; heart stopped." She heard herself whimper but he went on with the same relentless gentleness, "And when your heart started beating again, you felt me there waiting for you. You are immortal, Theresa Vetter, and you are in the Game, and the longer you refuse to admit those things to yourself, the deeper they are going to bite when you do admit it. Are you listening to yourself yet?"

"I-- I didn't--" Tracy hauled air in with a gasp, shivering harder now, and hands pulling against Connor's. She didn't know when she'd caught his hands, or how hard she was squeezing, but the world had narrowed down to his warmth, her cold, the distant ache of her knees. She could see his jeans, her sweats, the way the carpet needed vacuuming despite her best efforts and lack of pets, the muscles under his skin, the bone and tendon under hers. The sight etched itself into her memory under the lash of adrenaline. She suddenly remembered Aidan mentioning immortal memory and realized that she would have remembered this moment anyway. Another part of her life had changed out of her control, out of her recognition, beyond her undoing of it....

Connor gave her something to pull against, someone to rail against, and didn't wait for her to meet his eyes before he continued "Didn't what, Tracy? Die? You did. Feel me as a threat to you? You did that, too."

"I didn't deny those," she said, and knew it for a lie as soon as she heard it. "Oh God. I did. I don't-- I can't do this, Connor." Her voice was high and tight with fear and denial; Tracy hated the sound of it and the idea that she could sound that way. "I knew this was coming, and I've been training for it, and oh God, I'm scared!"

Her eyes had closed somewhere in there, but the tears were spilling out anyway, and she pulled free of his hands to knot hers together as she doubled over with the sobs. She ended up against his shoulder, and felt warm arms around hers, strong legs on either side of hers, so Tracy cried herself out in the circle of his support. Cried until her lungs hurt, and her throat and her eyes, until she was too tired to keep crying and just clung to his sweater while Connor rubbed her back with one hand, the other arm a solid comfort around her ribs.

She floated for a little while, half-numb. Finally, however, her knees protested too much to be ignored, then her neck twinged, and her back. Tracy straightened up against the aches, only then realizing that the tight knot in her stomach had let up and she could breathe again.

Connor let go when she moved but waited until she shifted back, stiff knees protesting, to stand up himself. He brought her a handful of tissue first then handed over a glass of water. "Here." By the time Tracy had finished imitating a bull moose -- and smiling at the thought of her mother's usual comment at the end of a cold -- he'd brought over a wet paper towel, too. "For your eyes."

Tracy nodded and leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out on the coffee table. She tilted her head back and put the towel over her eyes, grateful for an excuse not to look at him when she said quietly, "Thanks."

She couldn't see him shrug but suspected he had anyway. "You needed it. The longer you waited, the worse it was going to be. And you're strong enough to have waited quite a while."

Tracy's mouth twisted at the compliment, not sure it was one she'd wanted. "Thanks, I think."

He put the glass back in her hand. "Get some more water down. Dying and grieving are both thirsty work." He grinned at her, and she managed a thread of a smile in return.

By the time she'd finished the water, her composure had returned -- more fragile, but more carefully preserved. Besides, she could see the minutes ticking by on the VCR clock. Bruce had told her once, coming off an undercover job, that playing a part hard enough could eventually turn it into reality. He'd been right, and it had destroyed him in the end, but Tracy nodded and set about pretending she was all right. It was grief. That ended eventually, and meanwhile, she had a life to get on with.

* * *

For the amount of pressure she'd had to let off, Tracy was recovering well, Connor thought. Good. An ability to spring back from shocks would take her a long way. She looked up from planning her next several moves -- he could almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes -- and paused, startled, then said, "You haven't had any sleep."

Connor didn't point out that she hadn't had any either. If there was a challenge and he was to take it, sleep would help. Tracy cleared the couch for him more hastily than he would have and grabbed a throw blanket and a pillow decorated with quilting and appliqué, not beads and baubles and other things that would keep it from being useful.

Connor stretched out where she'd made space for him. "Thanks." He arranged his sword on the floor near his hand automatically, smiled slightly at the way Tracy watched and nodded confirmation of some thought. He stretched long, hands and feet extending over the couch arms. Connor kicked off his shoes over the end of the couch before he relaxed and subsided into a comfortable half-curled position and tugged the blanket over his legs.

"Wake me if you need to leave," Connor said. "What time do you normally train with LaCroix?"

"Seven. I usually go to the gym at five," Tracy said absently.

Connor shook his head. _Three hours to accomplish all the necessities before a six-week absence? Possible, but no, especially when we can give her more time and polish the impression she wants to give._ "Not tonight, Tracy. This afternoon you pack and tonight, we'll go see LaCroix as usual. Skip the gym. We want to disrupt your normal schedule, make it clear you need that medical leave."

The phone rang again and Tracy let the machine screen it.

"Tracy, it's Aidan. Call me when you can, but it's nothing urgent on my end."

Tracy lunged for the phone, grabbing it and calling, "Aidan, hold on." She quickly turned off the answering machine and said, "Sorry, I've been trying not to talk to my father."

Connor punched up the couch pillow under his head and listened unabashedly to Tracy's side of the conversation; she only wrinkled her nose at him and paced an oval constrained by the length of the phone cord.

"Yeah, I was on duty. ... No, Nick took care of it. ... Well, that, too." Now she flushed slightly and sat down on a chair that, coincidentally enough, left her back turned to Connor. "I wasn't expecting it. It didn't feel like it does with Javier...."

The older MacLeod tried not to smile, turning away on the couch as if to settle into sleep. He wouldn't have dreamed of missing this, though.

"Hey, I didn't want to know that, okay, Aidan? I mean, come on. ... Fine, I'll quit being a prude when I'm older, I'm going to have a while, right? ... Connor's here, he's going to take me to France. ... No, actually, I don't know when. ... Sure. Nick's doing all right. Javier was probably pretty bad, but I missed it. I missed LaCroix, too. ... I'm okay, I guess. It hurt, a lot more than I really thought I could hurt. ... Breathing doesn't hurt and I've got full range of motion, so I think everything's all right. LaCroix cleaned and set everything. ... Yeah, well, tell Duncan and Adam I'm all right, would you? ... Sure, I'll tell Gina and Robert. Did you want to talk to Connor? I don't think he's entirely asleep yet. ... Right, just a second."

Connor flipped over, shed his blanket, and reached out for the phone. Now Tracy got to put together half of a conversation; he suspected she was finding it every bit as entertaining as he had.

"Sister. ... Oh, this and that. ... A man named Arthur Gardener left a present at the store about a week ago. You remember Miles Westbrook? ... He also used the name Utrecht. Yes, the one whose daggers you're holding. Right, him. This is one of his students. I've been tracking him, off and on, since he left me the warning. He may have followed me here. ... I'd say that's a bit close to cheating, but you're right, it would be fun. Does the Roman throw them out or bounce them off the walls? ... I'll think about it. ... Say hello to Duncan and Adam for me. ... Yes, I know he's in France, but you may talk to him before I do. ... If I do, I'll tell him. ... Aidan."

Connor hung up and grinned at Tracy's scandalized expression. "Aidan thinks we should let Gardener follow us to the Raven -- and do nothing. Apparently LaCroix takes offense to people wasting blood in his nightclub?"

Tracy paused, pen held motionless over a list she was composing. "That just might work."

Connor shook his head. "I don't think so. It would work, all right, but better we don't bring LaCroix any further in on our business. I'll deal with Gardener tomorrow or when I get back."

"Well, I'll get packed," she said dubiously, "but if he follows us here, I may call him in to the precinct."

"Now that has potential," came the judicious reply. "Did Duncan ever tell you about the time Adam called the Paris gendarmes on a bastard named Kalas?"

"No, and you aren't going to tell me right now either. Get some sleep, Connor."

"Bossy woman. You'll do just fine, Tracy. Wake me at six, or sooner if you need to talk." Connor turned his back to the room, tugged the blanket back into place, and fell asleep within moments.

* * *

Tracy's afternoon had vanished into a haze of details to be handled before she left, and she was grateful Connor could clearly do this in his sleep, judging by how fast he’d arrived in Toronto. Her evening, however, was vanishing into a succession of adrenaline-edged memories.

She hauled herself off the floor -- again -- sore in a way that would have meant days of bruises and dodging the gym's pool (and a bathing suit) yesterday. Tracy didn't know what it meant today, or how soon the bruises would be gone. Her ankle had just about quit throbbing, although her head still ached from the wide-edged focus necessary in a sword fight. Her hands felt like they were always going to be wrapped around the hilt of her sword, and her shoulders could still feel the impact of that landing and the blow she'd blocked that had thrown her there.

LaCroix was watching her through narrowed eyes, face expressionless. That was nothing unusual and might mean she was doing well. It could also mean that she was doing particularly badly and he hadn't decided which inch of her ego to start shredding yet. Her clothes were sticky with blood, which was new. He was usually careful not to cut her, ostensibly for her sake in the police locker room. Tracy had always suspected he preferred not to waste blood.

Tonight was proving her wrong on that, too, but the cuts were relatively shallow and fading quickly. Her t-shirt and sweatpants were going to have to be thrown out or burned, which was annoying.

"Very well," LaCroix said at last. "Hibernian?"

"Try MacLeod, or Nash," Connor said dryly. "And was that an invitation to spar you or her?"

LaCroix's lips curved, but it wasn't really a smile. "Her."

"Any point in my saying no?" Tracy asked, but she was already back on her feet.

Connor studied LaCroix for a moment, head tilted and eyes narrowed, then said, "No. Not really. So." He launched before she was ready, but she threw herself sideways anyway, rolling back up to her feet with her gladius in place to block his katana. The angle wasn't as good as it should have been, and she had to try to shove the blade out against his greater upper body strength to avoid being cut, but she managed it. The flash of approval in his eyes made her smile despite herself, even as she moved to block his blade again.

That time, he swept her good leg off the ground, forcing her back onto the strained ankle at an angle that threw her to the ground. The next time she hit the ground, it was because of a blow from the hilt of his sword at the back of her knee; the third time, he blocked her blade and rolled inside her weapon's reach to shoulder block her into the wall, hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

Each time Tracy hit the ground, Connor stepped back, waited for her to get up, and showed her, slowly, how he'd taken her down this time, where she'd left herself open.

Then he began again.

It was no worse than LaCroix, but her body ached from bruises that were slowly fading rather than going yellow-green -- Connor's vanished by the time he'd put down his sword -- and Tracy's pride ached from the blood-stains on her clothes where she hadn't moved fast enough. It didn't help that LaCroix was still standing there, motionless as a statue, watching the whole thing.

Connor finally stepped back and nodded to her. "Enough for the night. So. Bad news first. You need more work on your stamina and more work against opponents of different heights. Your defensive work is good, but you don't have enough practice at offense yet. When you work on defense, work on the full range of heights -- you'll face opponents both taller and smaller than yourself. Your low guard is still bad, lass, which is why you kept hitting the floor.

"The good news is, you're faster than I'd hoped, and stronger. Your blocks aren't what they need to be, but you're developing a feel for where they should be. You don't have them there yet, but you've learned to feel where they should be, so that'll develop as you practice. And your stamina's better than your healing would indicate. All the work there is paying off."

Connor watched her, grave but not grim and, best of all, not disappointed. "You're not ready yet, not even close, but you're far better off than I'd hoped. Best of all, you aren't afraid to dodge an attack. Good. Your best defense, now and for a while to come, will be running away. Don't let them trap you with pride, Tracy. Run."

Tracy blinked. "Really?"

Connor nodded. "Really. I like live lions myself, and if you get away, you can plan to win another day. Do you want the rules I gave my Rachel when she was six and we were moving across Occupied France?"

“Yes,” Tracy said immediately. She made herself focus tightly, wanting this etched into her memories, too.

Connor nodded and held up a hand, folding a finger down with each point. “Don’t let them hurt you. Don’t hurt yourself. Stop them as hard as you have to and if you have to kill them, then they shouldn’t have threatened you. Don’t get fancy.” He closed his hand into a fist. “Just stay alive. If that takes running? Run.”

LaCroix said calmly, "I begin to see how you've lasted so long, Hibernian."

Connor flashed him a wicked grin. "I'm a stubborn man. Tracy is smarter and sneakier, so I'm playing to her strengths. So? Content to leave her to my guardianship for a day or two, Roman?"

"More so than I was." LaCroix nodded to Tracy. "Theresa, I will see you on your return. Strength to your arm."

Then he was gone, in that annoying way he and the other vampires had of blurring away. Tracy blinked and rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear sweat and exhaustion away for a few minutes more. "Does that mean he's happy with this?"

Connor chuckled. "That was a soldier's farewell, Tracy – a farewell to a soldier. From him, that was a compliment."

Tracy blinked and rubbed her eyes again, this time to rid herself of inconvenient tears. "Oh."

Connor just smiled at her. "Shower, lass, and intact clothes."

* * *

By the time the sun had completely cleared the horizon, Tracy had spent eleven hours dead and only two more asleep out of thirty. She was wound far too tight to sleep yet, however, and she was more than a little worried.

Connor made her eat breakfast, then let her fidget from book to magazine to a letter that only made it as far as 'Dear Dad and Mom,' before he asked, "Anything in specific, Tracy, or the whole matter?"

Tracy scrubbed her face with her hands, trying to knuckle the weariness out of her eyes, before she admitted quietly, "A little of all of it. And Vachon was... distant."

Connor used his LaGuardia boarding pass to mark his place in his book and turned his attention to her, a consideration as discomforting as the chair and lights in the interrogation rooms. "Dying changed you, and not only by pushing you into the Game. Those changes will spread out through the relationships around you, whether or not the others know what's happened to you. And you're leaving to change still more. Vachon is old enough he ought to know some of that, although you'd know better than I if he's wise enough to accept all of it. He may be waiting to see how wide these ripples get."

"Oh. Yes. Vachon will understand that." Tracy tried to think about it. "Even people who don't know about..." she waved a hand at her skin, her sword, "are going to see I've changed? But I haven't, Connor. Not out here."

Connor just studied her thoughtfully. "You're already watching your surroundings just a bit more, giving your father's opinions a little less weight. You're going to France to learn how to survive decades, not years, and that survival is going to require you to rethink almost all of your priorities, Tracy. Including which laws you'll obey, and when, and why. Do you think your arguments with your father will be the same? Or with your captain, your partners?"

Tracy rubbed her forehead. "I'm going to... it's going to change me that much?"

"No. You will change yourself that much. You'll change because you want to survive, and you'll make sure you control the changes because you won't trust anyone else to do it for you. And you shouldn't." Connor watched her, calm and certain and seeing her far too clearly for a man she'd only met once before. "You're a good detective because you check everything yourself, even those things you'd like to believe and don't quite. You'll check yourself the same way, and you'll change yourself as carefully, so that you know down to your bones precisely where your lines and limits are... and where they stop."

Tracy didn't flinch, only thought about it, and nodded slowly in agreement. Connor nodded approvingly and went on, "I do what I have to do to live and worry later about hating the deeds instead of myself, but that’s me. You're going to have to decide how you would handle that kind of crisis. You'll make your own changes, Tracy, and once you're in France, safely in Gina and Robert's hands, you'll make yourself look at who you're willing to become because you may never again have six weeks outside the small worries of job, and rent, and food, and lover, and the rest of your daily life."

"You're saying I should take full advantage of it," Tracy said shakily, but she was listening to Connor, leaning forward on the couch and never taking her eyes off his face.

Connor nodded. "I am. I'm also saying you're not fool enough to ignore the chance, or the necessities."

"How do you know?" Tracy looked down to check her bag, shamed by how young and scared she sounded, how frightened she felt by this new life opening in front of her whether she was ready or not. By how badly she needed to hear someone who'd made it in this new life say she could. She still hadn't expected the answer he gave.

"I watched you spar tonight," Connor answered immediately. "It showed me what you watch and how, where you spend your energy, whether you check your weapon yourself and clean it yourself, much less do all that well. It showed me where you listen and where you think for yourself and when you take time to think. I can't promise you'll make it, Tracy. No one can promise you that -- and remember that in years to come, lass. More than one bastard has trapped young immortals by promising to be their shield against the world, and you can guess how much and how dearly the youngsters paid for that."

Connor waited until she looked up to tell her, "What I can promise you is that if you go on as you are, you might well survive and you'll make someone's life hell trying to kill you. And I think you'll live, not just survive. It's up to you, lass, but you've made a fair start."

Tracy nodded. "Thank you." She managed a shaky smile. "Not enough sleep, too many worries. Sorry about that."

"And your life turned upside down," Connor agreed, but he stood up, too. He grinned at her. "There's a reason they call this sort of thing a roller coaster."

He glanced at the clock, nodded, and picked up his bag. "Time to go."

Tracy tucked her passport and book into her coat pocket and checked one last time to see that her gun safe was securely locked and concealed behind the curtain again. She nodded, hefted her own suitcase, and turned lights off behind her as she walked to the door. She glanced around the hallway, turned and locked her door before answering him.

"I'm ready."

_~~~ finis ~~~_

_Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:_

Beta'd by devo, Dragon, Eponin, Ilyena_Sylph, and Mischief, at various times! Written for prompt #29 of Crossovers100 -- _birth_.

Joachin Rodrigo was a Spanish composer, who wrote the first orchestral work composed specifically for guitar. (Now, that said, I’ve since been introduced to [Rodrigo y Gabriela](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7J28KhdB8kE) and DAMN. If you loved the music in Puss In Boots, you probably know their work, too.)

The immortals who died the weird deaths are from the Watcher CD: Auberon fell out of a tree (died in Paris at Kalas' hands), Michael Christian ran into a milk truck (killed May-Ling; killed by Duncan; story heard from Joe), and Frank Brody debated berrying-rights with a mountain lion (killed by Kenny).

Bruce Spenner was a friend of Tracy's, an undercover cop who didn't stick to the law while undercover. (Played by Callum Keith Rennie, who shows up everywhere.)

Arthur Gardener is a Kiwi immortal, not very old, trained by Miles Westbrook (aka Milan Utrecht), who was British, then moved to Rhodesia and developed some decidedly racist ideas. Aidan Logan killed Westbrook between the events of "Absent Companions" and "Hold On." They're both original characters of mine and not particularly nice ones at that.

And I finally admitted this story was finished, to my relief and that of my betas, I suspect. I hope y'all enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by devo, Dragon, Eponin, Ilyena_Sylph, and Mischief, at various times! Written for prompt #29 of Crossovers100 -- _birth_.
> 
> _Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:_  
> 
> 
> Joachin Rodrigo was a Spanish composer, who wrote the first orchestral work composed specifically for guitar. (Now, that said, I’ve since been introduced to [Rodrigo y Gabriela](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7J28KhdB8kE) and DAMN. If you loved the music in _Puss In Boots_ , you probably know their work, too.)
> 
> The immortals who died the weird deaths are from the Watcher CD: Auberon fell out of a tree (died in Paris at Kalas' hands), Michael Christian ran into a milk truck (killed May-Ling; killed by Duncan; story heard from Joe), and Frank Brody debated berrying-rights with a mountain lion (killed by Kenny).


End file.
